


054 - Quitting Smoking: a Stupid Bet

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Can you do one where Van and the reader smoke a lot and they make a bet to see who can go longer without smoking? The end is up to you!”





	054 - Quitting Smoking: a Stupid Bet

You watched Sam run around the backyard chasing the cat. She was screaming and the cat was clearly upset. Your sister yelled at her husband to save the poor thing. He went over and swooped on Sam, picking her up and tickling her tummy. Your sister sighed, and held the new baby closer to her chest. She looked surprisingly well rested. Van leant in and kissed your cheek.

"Be back in a sec," he whispered in your ear and disappeared down the side of the house. Your sister looked over.

"Smoke?" she guessed, and you nodded. "You're both going to have to give that up if you want kids anytime soon."

"Not to mention if you don't want to die anytime soon," her husband added as he sat back at the table after putting Sam in the sandpit. She was making castles, and the cat was keeping its distance under a bush on the other side of the yard.

"Yeah, I know, I know."

You made a decision to not swap places with Van when he returned. You wouldn’t disappear away and take a drag and let the poison fill your lungs. Instead, you'd stay where you were and drink another drink and laugh at another joke and hold your baby nephew.

…

Later that night you and Van were squished onto the small fire escape stairwell; the only outdoor space attached to the flat. You smoked together and let the ashes fall to the ground below.

"We need to stop smoking," you told him. He looked over, took another drag, and nodded. The smoke blew out into the air and it was annoyingly aesthetically pleasing.

"You've been saying that for years,"

"I know, but like, we've probably already done damage. We don’t want our kids to think it's alright, and we don't want to die younger and leave them without us," you explained. He smiled when you mentioned children. He always did. He nodded and put out his half-finished cigarette. You copied his action and followed him inside.

"You know, you're always the one to start smoking again first," he teased. You jumped to sit on the kitchen bench. He stood in front of you.

"Can we order Thai?" you asked, and he gave you a look that said 'oh, you're not going to admit I'm right?'

"Sure,"

"And whatever. I won't this time. I bet," you said, offended even though he was 100% accurate in his observation of past attempts to quit. He was looking through a pile of junk mail for the Thai takeaway menu. He stopped at the word 'bet' and turned back to you.

"Bet what?"

Of course it was going to be a game. The only way Van would do anything was if it was going to benefit his band's career, or if it was a game… a competition… a bet.

"I don't know. What do you want? Everything that's mine is already yours," you replied. There really wasn't much you could offer him.

"Not everything," he grinned like a fourteen year old that just saw a bra strap for the first time. 

"Van. I'm not betting my literal body. I will bet you..." you paused to think and he watched. You could see his mind ticking over with possibilities, none of which you planned on indulging. "Whoever has the first smoke, i.e. the loser, has too... Do all the cleaning for a month,"

"That's the most boring bet ever, Y/N," 

"I hate cleaning and I feel like I can win,"

"Boring,"

"Ugh, fine, um..." He was leaning against the bench in the kitchen and he had a smug look on his face. He was totally expecting to come out victorious. "I know. Whoever wins get full naming rights of our firstborn."

He didn't anticipate the suggestion. You knew how much your future children meant to him. Whenever he met someone with a name he liked, he wrote it down in one of the notebooks he had piled around the place. Names were important. Not having a say would kill him. Therefore, it was not a boring bet, and the stakes were high. A good game. His expression faltered for a millisecond before the smugness returned and he started nodding. He stuck his hand out to shake on it. 

"If I win I'm going to name them Larry," he said as he pulled you from the handshake into a hug. 

"Even if they're not a boy?" 

"Yeah. You're all about breaking them gender roles and stuff." 

…

Three days in and you could feel your skin crawl. Van was right to be so sure of himself. It was harder for you. He had other ways of dealing with stress and had other activities that filled the addictive void. He'd disappear to play guitar for hours, or put Fifa on the hardest settings and play until he won. All you could do was pace the house and complain about your lack of hobbies. 

You baked four batches of cookies, scrubbed the grout between the shower tiles, and even voluntarily went for a walk around the block. You were about to rearrange the bookshelf in order of publishing date when Van couldn't take it anymore. 

"Y/N. Have a fucking smoke. You're killin' me," 

"I'm going to win,"

"Yeah and you will have the honour of naming babies that won't exist because I will leave you because you are so fucking annoying."

He was mostly joking. Yes, he was frustrated, but no, he wouldn't leave. You knew that logically, but your body was one huge exposed nerve and you hadn't been sleeping and you wanted a goddamn cigarette. Tears started to well up in your eyes. Van's face dropped and he rushed to you. His arms were around you and the smell of tobacco still in his clothes was torture. You started to cry and whine and push him away. 

"No, I'm sorry, baby, come here," he said quickly and kept trying to hold you. He took hold of your arm above the wrist and started to lead you away from the bookshelf and into the bedroom. "Come on, we'll nap, yeah?" The tears were hot on your face and your nose had started to run. You sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at Van. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe your face. "In," he ordered gently. You were still in the yoga pants you went for a walk in, but had changed into an old Little Comets shirt Van used to wear when he was younger. He followed you under the blankets. He held his arms open and you shuffled into them. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. You nodded. "Maybe we should just try again another time?" 

"No!" you whined and felt more tears forming. "It shouldn't be this hard. It's not like I'm on fucking crack or anything." Van laughed, but you were serious. "Why's it easier for you?" 

"I don't know, love. I just... Can stop?" It made sense. Once Van had decided on something, that something would happen. Start a band. Be successful. Ask you out. Live together. Easy, easy, easy. Of course his body would turn and say 'yeah, alright mate, we don't need no smokes anymore!' and that would be that. 

"I can do this," you asserted.

"Yeah, you can. But you need sleep." 

He'd always ride the line between giving in and giving you what you wanted regardless of consequences, and wanting to be supportive of what you put your mind to. If you did ever do heroine, there was a 50/50 chance of him buying it for you or sending you off to rehab kicking and screaming. 

You did sleep, but it was fitful and unsatisfying. However, when you awoke you had less cravings. You quickly decided to eat, to satisfy the want. Van was already up. He was dressed and was clearly killing time until you woke up. 

"It's almost seven. Want to go out and get something to eat?" he asked when you walked into the kitchen. 

"Read my mind," you answered in a sleepy voice. 

…

There was a new Ethiopian place down the road, and Van thought it would be good for you to be able to eat with your hands. As the giant plate came out, you quickly ripped at the injera. He was right. There was something soothing about the soft fairy lights of the restaurant, the texture of the warm bread, and the welcoming faces of the family that ran the place. When you were full you could feel a little food baby sitting under your belly button. You rested your hand over it, and Van laughed. 

You walked home holding hands. It wasn't until Van was unlocking the door you realised you hadn't thought about a post-dinner cigarette. You wanted praise, but Van had achieved the same feat, so you left it. Van made tea and brought it to you on the couch. He stepped over your legs and collapsed next to you. The room was dark and quiet; you'd not yet turned the television on. He didn't move to either. You drank your tea in silence. It was weird, but warm, and felt like home. Van's head rested on your shoulder and he played with the fingers of your free hand. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked, making his voice small to not break the tranquil magic in the room. 

"Alright,"

"Good alright or bad alright?" 

"Good alright." 

He nodded and held his hand out for your tea cup. He drank a quarter of it in one go, then handed it back. You drank the rest and put the cup on the coffee table. He stood and you followed him to bed. 

...

The next morning it was easier, and the morning after was easier still. It became apparent that nobody was going to win the bet, because you'd both kicked the habit. A few weeks later you were standing hand in hand with Van out the back of a club he'd just played in. Bondy had a smoke hanging between his lips, and he held out the open packet. Both you and Van declined, then swapped small proud smiles. 

"So who names the baby then?" Benji asked. 

"Me," Larry answered for both of you. "It's gonna be called Larry."

"Not happening, mate," you responded. 

"Look, if it's good enough to be the first word on an album, it's good enough for a baby," he reasoned. You laughed. 

Your firstborn would not be named Larry, or any variance thereof. You didn't know what they'd be called, but you knew they'd be happy and healthy. They'd be able to play in sandpits and with cats and not have their little lungs fill with second-hand smoke. They'd not be taught that smoking was attractive, or normal. Your self-efficacy had improved, and the sense of achievement was immeasurable.

"We did good," Van said in the car ride home. You agreed whole-heartedly.


End file.
